Nereid
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: Swimming was the best feeling in the world to her. Well... second best. Spy/ScoutMa Please forgive me.


**A/N: **Once upon a time, I wrote romance that could just barely be defined as porn. It was a very sad attempt at it and I feel like I'm going to lose some respect after this.

* * *

Water was movement. Water was freedom.

Water was the sheltering cocoon that embraced the body, cradling it.

Water was the source of our energy and the gift of life. It was in everything, everywhere, waiting to be explored and adored. Simply put, it was the driving force of all nature.

And she loved it.

She stroked her lithe limbs through it, carving her way deeper into the moonlit sea. She swept through the water like a bird soars through the crisp autumn sky, as gracefully as only she could. Diving deeper into the darkness, she now felt completely at peace. In the water, there were no children to drive to baseball practice. There were no backbreaking chores. Right there, right then, all she cared about was swimming and watching her raven locks swaying around her as she curled and jumped out, letting the silver glow shine upon her soaked body. At that late hour, they were alone. Her paramour who was sitting idly at the white gravely beach, she, who had been searching the mysterious tempting abyss, the moon that admired its reflection in the waving water, and about a thousand stars going on and off like twinkling Christmas lights. She admired the view of the night sky; like diamonds scattered across sheer black satin. Her body lay stretched-out on the surface, drifting slowly as the water filled her ears. She was never more relaxed, and yet her heartbeat was quick like that of a humming bird. For a moment she remained stretched and calm before diving again.

The man observing her was lounging on the seaside, propping himself on his elbows to have a batter look. He was still clad in his regulation pin-striped suit and tie, albeit it was loosened a bit for the sake of the informality of his trip. Still, he had to preserve some business conduct he became familiar with during his lengthy employment at Reliable Excavation and Demolition. Balaclava and handgun included. It was a damn good thing nobody was around to see him and have their suspicions raised. Honestly, somebody would think that a man like the Spy would think twice before going on this little excursion with the little nymph that was performing her shadowy, shining dance before him. The truth is, he did think this through. And every time he came to a silent conclusion that it would be too risky, his not-so-silent sweetheart would begin enthusing about her missing the sea, yearning for it. And that was the end of that or any foul inkling that his mind came across during their holiday.

He watched her dance, infatuated by her grace and agility. She was oblivious to the fact that he was looking her way (and oddly enough, completely aware of it at the same time). She just knew that she simply adored bathing in the salty water that left her skin smooth and velvety, after it had been pestered by the unyielding afternoon sun. She would wake up the next morning with a browning tan that her inamorato would admire, running the tips of his ungloved digits over her forearms and planting a kiss at the nape of her neck. He would then run his fingers through her matted hair, his lips making their way to her shoulder. Shivers flew through her body, and her eyes flashed wide open. She looked over to the beach in his direction, noticing that she should be returning to him.

She splashed the water playfully, watching the pressure rise to the surface in small, fizzing bubbles. It reminded her of champagne for some reason. Running down the long, thin, fragile glass before it was drank in one greedy gulp that the man would often criticize her for. Her head dipped down in one final dive, during which she swam almost the entire distance before emerging, taking a deep breath and finally stepping on the first stone her feet could reach.

The Spy watched his muse walking out of the body of water, looking like a mirage; a goddess of the sea. In her lean, snug, powder-blue two-piece and her raven hair falling over her spotted shoulders, illuminated in the moon's glow, it was quite possible to mistake her for a sprite that dwelled in the unsearched depths of the deep blue. Her steps were cautious and slow, and left small wet imprints on the white gravel under her feet. Her thin fingers coiled around her arms, giving them a couple of quick caresses as her back hunched forward, just a little bit. After being in the rejuvenating water for so long, returning to the surface was something short of anticlimactic. The Spy removed his jacket and placed it over her hoisted shoulders.

"Thanks," she huffed, looking over her shoulder and squinting at the sea. "Lucky you, all dressed like that."

He smiled at her, running his fingers behind her back and bringing her frame close. She reciprocated the content smile before narrowing her eyes, looking at his shirt.

"Oh my God, why are you wearing a freakin' tie? This is a vacation, ya know?" She planted her hands on her hips before realizing that the jacket was slowly slipping off her wet back. She grabbed the lapels with both her hands and brought them together. The Spy just shook his head.

"It never hurts to keep up appearances," he stated, ticking up an eyebrow at her curled, shivering body. "You should try it sometime."

"Oh, hardy-har-har. You know, just because you can wear a fancy-schmancy suit at work don't mean you always have to. For God's sakes," she screeched, tugging at his tie until he was forced to lean forward, "take off that tie or I'll yank it off!"

"Feisty tonight, aren't we?" He asked with a smug grin, his face inching towards hers involuntarily. Her alert, cornflower eyes shifted onto his face. For some reason, she failed to nag about his insistence on wearing a balaclava. In fact, she failed to say a word. Her lips parted slightly (as did his, though he was unaware of it), and they moved closer, her fingers still clutching his silken tie. They were alone; completely alone now, save for the moon, the chirping crickets and the babbling sea. Her eyes closed slowly, but even through her eyelids she could see his face, cool and pleased while he placed his hand on her moist cheek. The water fizzed on its surface as slowly as their lips moved, mixing together the taste of champagne, cigarettes and sea salt. She was slightly unaware of what was happening; the water numbed her senses quite comfortably. Not even the man could say when exactly her fingers slipped off his tie, or whether or not a soft moan escaped from the back of her throat as his arms wrapped around her waist. The crickets hummed and twittered, creating the all-too-familiar annoying ambiance one would be submitted to on the beach. This time, it was not as irritating. In fact, it was quite calming. Even after their lips parted, the woman lingered in his embrace, slowly looking up at him. It took her a little under a minute to finally speak, her voice hoarse while she stuck her nose into his shirt and inhaled.

"So, uhm…" The man's jacket slipped off her shoulders and fell into his folded arms. "Do you wanna get rid of that tie or stay here and bicker some more?"

Get rid of that tie.

/***/

He had no recollection of when exactly he brought her inside the small shack they were to sleep in, nor did he have any idea how his legs managed to get him across the beach and over the threshold. She clung to him; the taut, taupe beauty with glossy hair and glassy eyes. He was quite sure that the jacket he used to drape her with had fallen somewhere along the way. It was a damn good thing no weapons were in it… were there?

Stumbling and practically tripping over their own feet, the two lovers made their way to the wide bed covered with pristine linen sheets, even whiter in contrast with the ultramarine sky peering at them through the wide-opened window. The full moon still shone at the woman's velvety skin, making the small droplets that were scattered over her skin seem aglow. She moved one of her wayward hands and pressed down on his chest.

"We can't yet," she spoke through heavy, rushed breaths. "I didn't even shower, I'm all salty!"

Without as much as a word, the Frenchman picked her up by the thighs and threw her on the covers, making her yelp as her body bounced up. Even though she was shocked by this action, she couldn't help but to manage an ear-to-ear smile as he extended himself over her, shooting her a look that was exceedingly lustful, if not even predatory. Then again, it was hard to tell in the dark. She could bet, however, that he wasn't set on waiting another minute.

"_Perfect_," he commented, slowly sinking on her. She could deal with being salty, she mused while the man showered her neck with warm kisses.

While his lips flew over her tanned skin, her fingers fumbled around with the buttons of his shirt (she didn't bother with the tie, the tie was _long _gone), slowly undoing his shirt and uncovering one inch of taut, paler skin at a time. She could only look at it for a second at a time, constantly having to close her eyes while his hand reached up her thigh and undid the top of her bikini, making her arch her back outwards to aid his eager hand. He untied the small knot with much more grace than she unbuttoned his shirt (nothing underneath, thank God), and after he was done, he shed off the excess fabric covering his back and arms. They continued to kiss, their limbs flying and caressing under the alert moonlight that observed as their heartbeats aligned.

He grazed her heavy mounds, making her gasp and toss her head back; the raven locks stuck to her neck and shoulders, still dripping wet. Moving his hands lower, he tucked each side of her bottom swimsuit piece between his thumb and index finger. As soon as he moved them just an inch downwards, he felt a hot, stirring sensation in his chest. He closed his eyes briefly to control his excitement, and by the time he opened them, the swimsuit was halfway down to her knees, ready to be tossed away and thrown against the wall. His little water nymph smiled devilishly as her feet slipped out, and she quickly wrapped her long, smooth legs around his hips. She pulled him onto her, still in his pants, still in great desire and wanting her. She disliked one of those three listed things.

"I want you to know," she hummed into his ear while her legs tightened around him, just about feeling his fabric-restrained, turgid flesh against her bare thigh, "I am about to make love to you until you beg me for mercy twice."

For a second, his expression seemed sterner, looking at her coldly. His grey-blue eyes narrowed.

"I do not beg. Never have, never will."

"… _twice_."

Needless to say, he accepted her little challenge. Their clothes were scattered across the hardwood floor until they resembled something much like a clichéd movie setting for a romantic scene. Close-up on the floor, the furniture, bottle of champagne on ice. Then we would see the progression of their tryst, starting with the misplaced shoes and tie, moving along with the shirt and pants, ending with their undergarments dropped at the foot of the creaking bed or even laying over it. The two were tangled together in their urgent, amorous embrace, their lips not leaving their bodies for a second at first. Quite soon, it was hard to concentrate on the bodies, no matter how brown and smooth they felt. The pleasure grew in their bodies like waves shook the still surface of the sea. They rocked, swayed, loved in perfect unison. There was a silent connection between them whenever they made love. Each whimper and gasp could be deciphered, and the partner would change pace or force accordingly. The salt-laced sylph rolled her head as her lover kissed the smooth line where the neck met the shoulder, and she straddled him tighter, her face tightening.

Even through her apex, she could feel his warm, tangy breath on her now dry skin. She stayed in a trance, feeling like she was floating, free from all the worries of the world. The pleasure came and went in waves, and she basked in the blissful afterglow of half-blindness, half-breathlessness. There was no begging that night, even though the man did scream out her name during his climax before he fell on her. Her horrid, three-syllable, unearthly name lingered in the summer air, echoing around the wooden walls. She smiled as she heard him.

For a while, their limbs were rubbery and immobile. It couldn't have taken anything less than an electric shock to move them. Lazily, their arms wrapped around each other, coming closer and feeling their beating hearts steady again. The man was dozing off by now. Upon hearing her impressed comment that he managed to keep up with her, he just laughed to himself while his eyelids dropped, and he pulled her closer again.

Looking at his balaclava and the small unruly strands of his jet-black hair, she went back to her train of thought, the kind that occurred when her mind was fully unburdened.

Passion was movement. Passion was freedom.

Passion was the sheltering cocoon that embraced the body, cradling it.

Passion was the source of our energy and the gift of life. It was in everything, everywhere, waiting to be explored and adored. Simply put, it was the driving force of all nature.

And she loved it.


End file.
